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O, Truth, you are no sudden, shouted thing,but a whisper in the hush where stillness grows.I seek you not on some triumphant wing,but in the patient quiet the spirit knows.I must first learn to cup my ear and wait,to filter out the static and the pride,to sit in silence at your humble gateand quell the noisy arguments inside.This listening is a habit to be learned,a daily turning from the world’s demands,a sacred space for which my soul has yearned,held gently in contemplative hands.At first your voice is faint, a fragile thread,lost in the anxious dialogues of my head.But practice carves a channel, deep and clear,and soon your steady current starts to flow.Then I shall speak, and banish hollow fear,for I will say the only thing I know.My words will be an echo, not a claim,a simple vessel for your constant flame.Truth! I shall speak you, having learned your nameby first becoming fluent in your aim.

My voice was once a clanging gong,A boastful shout in every song,A fortress built of stubborn prideWith empty echoes deep inside.My words were stones I threw with might,Believing my own dark was light.I spoke of what I thought I knew,A garden where no real seed grew,A frantic, self-important soundOn hollow and unhallowed ground.But Truth, you are no battle cry,No thunderbolt from a torn sky.You are the quiet in the stone,The marrow deep within the bone.You are the hush when birdsong ends,The patient space on which all depends.To hear your current, soft and low,I had to let my own thoughts go,And learn the discipline of peace,To grant my noisy mind release.So I began the patient artOf listening with a waiting heart.I made a habit of the hush,To feel your slow, insistent pushIn rustling leaf and falling rain,In patterns of my own deep pain.And now, when called upon to speak,The words I find are no longer weak.They rise not from a shallow place,But from that quiet, sacred space.

You do not shout above the market’s dinOr vie for notice where the proud words fly.You are the low hum when the self wears thin,A subtle current under frozen sky.The world is clamor, a relentless tradeOf loud opinion, confident and fast,A fortress built of hasty thoughts, a shadeWhere echoes of the ego are outcast.So I must make a habit of the hush,A sacred discipline within the soul,To turn my ear from ego’s frantic rushAnd let your patient resonance make wholeThe fractured quiet where distractions breed.I’ll learn the shape of silence, plant the seedOf patient waiting in the frantic pace,And seek your form in every empty space.And only then, when I have learned the pitchOf your clear frequency, a silver chime,Can my own tongue abandon its old stitchOf hurried judgment. Then, I will have timeTo speak you, not as weapon or as creed,But as a riverbed directs the reed.Truth! I shall speak you, not with boastful art,But as an echo from a listening heart.

{'response': "A shy and feathered thing, you are, O Truth,\nNot one for brazen shouts or careless youth.\nYou perch on stillness, on the edge of thought,\nA prize un-won, a lesson yet untaught.\nI come to you not with a hunter's snare,\nBut with an open palm and silent prayer.\nI build a nest of quiet in my mind,\nLeaving the clatter of the world behind.\nI learn the language of the falling leaf,\nThe patient wisdom of the coral reef.\nI practice hearing what the wind has sighed,\nWhere echoes of your gentle footsteps hide.\nAnd when my soul becomes a listening-space,\nA tranquil, hallowed, and receptive place,\nYou might alight, your timid voice a hum,\nFrom which my own true words will learn to come.\nFor 'Truth! I shall speak you if I am in habit of listening to you,'\nAnd make my heart a sanctuary, new.\nMy tongue, once tangled, will at last be free,\nTo echo what you first have sung to me.", 'probability': 1.0}

{'response': "You are no trumpet's blare, no gavel's fall,\nNo sudden edict answering my call.\nTruth, you're the whisper in the rustling reed,\nThe patient turning of a mustard seed.\nFor years I shouted, thinking you'd reply,\nAnd forged your name to sanctify a lie.\nMy voice was loud, a confident decree,\nBut it was only ever quoting me.\nSo now I sit beside the placid stream,\nAnd listen for you in a waking dream.\nI learn your cadence, subtle, soft, and deep,\nWhile all my proud and loud assertions sleep.\nIt is a quiet art, a practiced grace,\nTo find your presence in this silent space.\nAnd when my mouth next opens to proclaim,\nIt will be you who breathes, who speaks your name.\nFor 'Truth! I shall speak you if I am in habit of listening to you,'\nA simple pact, eternally renewed, a bond held fast and true.", 'probability': 1.0}

{'response': "Truth, you are no herald with a brazen horn,\nNo thunderclap that splits the sky at morn.\nYou are the whisper in the reed-choked stream,\nThe silent logic of a waking dream.\nYou are the space between the falling leaves,\nThe quiet knowledge that the heart believes\nBefore the mind can build its noisy case.\nYou ask for stillness, a receptive space.\nSo I must learn to quiet my own roar,\nTo un-bar the soul's long-bolted door\nAnd in the hush, to strain my inner ear\nFor the soft footfall that says you are near.\nThis is my practice, this my daily art:\nTo listen with a well-swept, waiting heart.\nAnd if my tongue should ever learn your grace,\nAnd speak your light in some benighted place,\nIt's not my voice, but yours, that will ring through—\nA borrowed echo, because I listened to you.\nThe habit forms, a channel clear and deep,\nWhere your slow currents, while the loud world sleeps,\nCan finally flow outward into speech,\nPlacing your substance within easy reach.", 'probability': 1.0}

On a lonely selection far out in the West,The sun cracks the clay where the earth finds no rest.A shimmer of heat on the rust-coloured plain,A silent, stoic endurance of strain.The homestead, a speck under skies vast and pale,Stands braced for the dust and the oncoming gale.The iron roof groans, a familiar old friend,On this life at the world's seeming, desolate end.No sound but the crow with his desolate cry,And the wind through the wire-grass, a long, weary sigh.The days bleed together in labour and sweat,On a promise of harvest, a hope unmet yet.The ghost gums stand sentinel, twisted and white,Guarding the silence that falls with the night.He watches the galahs, a pink, sudden fleet,A fleeting relief from the dust and the heat.He mends the split fencing with calloused, rough hand,A stranger who's wedded this unforgiving land.His thoughts drift to faces he'll not see again,As he scans the horizon and prays for the rain.But when the great sun bleeds its colour and dies,A cool, velvet comfort descends from the skies.The Southern Cross glitters, a diamond-sharp guide,And peace, for a moment, has nowhere to hide.

On a lonely selection far out in the West,The silence is not empty, but pressedWith the ghosts of old laughter, a half-recalled tuneThat hums on the porch ‘neath the pale afternoon.The fence line runs wavering, a stitch in the brown,Where the sky is a blanket that smothers the townYou left all those summers and heartaches ago;A life planted here, with nowhere to grow.The wind has a voice and it whispers your name,Or the name of a lover, it's one and the same.It rustles the pepper-tree, brittle and dry,A sound like a secret between earth and sky.You trace patterns in dust on the windowsill ledge,Living a life on the world's quiet edge.The loneliness here isn't sorrow or dread,But a space you can fill with the words left unsaid.The stars are your neighbours, they burn cold and bright,And the moon is a lantern that floods you with light.You don't count the days, you just measure the heat,The slow, steady rhythm of your own two feetOn the boards of the homestead, a hollow, soft drum,Waiting for someone who never will come.

On a lonely selection far out in the West,The silence is not empty, but pressedWith the ghosts of old laughter, a half-recalled tuneThat hums on the porch ‘neath the pale afternoon.The fence line runs wavering, a stitch in the brown,Where the sky is a blanket that smothers the townYou left all those summers and heartaches ago;A life planted here, with nowhere to grow.The wind has a voice and it whispers your name,Or the name of a lover, it's one and the same.It rustles the pepper-tree, brittle and dry,A sound like a secret between earth and sky.You trace patterns in dust on the windowsill ledge,Living a life on the world's quiet edge.The loneliness here isn't sorrow or dread,But a space you can fill with the words left unsaid.The stars are your neighbours, they burn cold and bright,And the moon is a lantern that floods you with light.You don't count the days, you just measure the heat,The slow, steady rhythm of your own two feetOn the boards of the homestead, a hollow, soft drum,Waiting for someone who never will come.

Truth, you are no herald with a trumpet's call,
No sudden fire that burns upon the wall.
You are the silence in a sunlit room,
A patient seed that pushes through the gloom.
I sought you in the arguments of men,
In ink-stained words and maxims from a pen.
But found you not in clamor or in creed,
But in the quiet where I sowed a seed
Of stillness. First, I had to learn to hush
The frantic mind, its panicked, urgent rush.
To make a space, a vessel, clean and deep,
Where your soft, moss-like whispers slowly creep.
"Truth! I shall speak you," let my words be clear,
But only when I've trained a patient ear.
For you are not a prize to be possessed,
But a low hum within a quieted breast.
My habit is to listen, day by day,
So when I speak, it's you who leads the way.

Truth, you are the whisper in the reed-beds,
The silver flash of fish in sunlit streams.
Not a trumpet blast for marching dread-heads,
But the quiet hum of waking dreams.
I cannot shout you from a stony steeple,
Or carve your laws for all the world to see,
Unless I first among the silent people
Have learned the patient art of hearing thee.
You are the pattern in the frost on glass,
The ancient language of the falling rain.
You wait for all the noisy thoughts to pass,
To leave a space inside the heart and brain.
So I will sit beside the patient stone,
And cup my ear to hear your subtle tone.
And only when your rhythm fills my own,
Will I dare speak the wisdom you have shown.

You are a wellspring, deep and seldom sought,
A quiet murmur, not a frantic shout.
You are the silence living in the thought,
The patient answer to the hurried doubt.
To speak your name without a listening ear
Is just to name a ghost, a hollow thing,
To banish all I claim to hold so dear,
A bell that's struck but never taught to ring.
So I will make my mind a waiting room,
A silent forest floor that catches seed,
And in the stillness, chase away the gloom
Of my own voice and my own selfish need.
My tongue must learn the discipline of rest,
To be the student, not the haughty sage,
To put my own assertions to the test
Against the wisdom of your silent page.
For you are not a prize that can be won,
A flag to plant on some high, rocky ground.
Your lesson is in how the listening's done.
Truth! I shall speak you, if in your habit's sound
My own small, quiet, waiting self is found.